


Socordia

by hopelessbookgeek



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Love, M/M, Seven Deadly Sins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-22
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-26 11:04:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 4,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/649858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hopelessbookgeek/pseuds/hopelessbookgeek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock and John are guilty of all seven sins, including... lust?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Avarice

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone! This will be a seven-part story, as you might have guessed, with each (short) chapter being a different deadly sin. The title is the Latin word for "sloth", which I feel is the best sin to describe Sherlock (particularly not on a case). :)

Avarice, n. extreme greed for wealth or material gain

Sherlock was not, by nature, a greedy person. He was lazy and self-centered, occasionally childish, but he rarely coveted the belongings of others. After all, what did they have that he could possibly want? He was brilliant; he had a steady hobby; he shared a lovely flat with a good friend. What did the common idiots have that he fancied?

That was just the thing. Nothing. No one had anything he wanted because what he wanted was not an object. It did not belong to anyway.

What he wanted was John. The short, blonde, ex-army doctor was occupying more and more of his mind palace with every waking hour– and with Sherlock Holmes, almost every hour was a waking one.

It wasn’t necessarily a lustful kind of wanting, either. He just desired John’s company, his friendship, his constant steady presence to be the Sun around which Sherlock’s Earth could continually revolve (yes, it was only recently that Sherlock figured that bit out. He tried to forget it, to delete it, to force it from his mind, but nothing that involved John could possibly disappear).

He was greedy about John’s social activities; anything that took him away from the flat too long was deemed unacceptable. Most (all right, all) of John’s dates fell into this category, as did any recreational activity in which Sherlock was not a part. The list was long and only excluded trips to the store.

It was a material sort of gain, an object that was desired for its simple existence. It had no need to do anything but be there, the way Sherlock needed John there. That was the other thing; he would never admit it, but he needed John. He, who had never required another soul for any purpose, desperately needed John Watson.

“Another one gone,” John fumed, storming into the flat and slamming the door. “She was perfectly fine, Sherlock, but the way you interrogated her when she picked me up pushed her over the edge. We had a very awkward date, thank you for asking, and now she’s gone and left me. And it’s all your fault!”

Sherlock merely shrugged, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere to John’s left. “These girls of yours are unimportant.”

“To you, not to me! I happen to like company other than you once in a while, that’s not all right? Oh, why do I bother, you’re not even listening, are you? I’m going to bed. Someday I’m going to get an explanation, a good one, about why you have to chase them all away.” He stalked off into his bedroom and shut the door more forcefully than usual.

Sherlock blinked. “That’s obvious, John,” he said disdainfully, even knowing the good doctor was not within earshot. “Because you are mine.”


	2. Wrath

Wrath, n. 1. strong, vengeful anger or indignation 2. retributory punishment for an offense or crime

Sherlock drew the bow across the strings of his violin as he stared pensively out the window. It was nearly high midnight, and the full moon hung heavy in the clear velvet sky, its silver glow stroking and softening the harsh planes of the consulting detective’s face. Starlight braided itself into the thick dark curls of his hair and seemed to blaze out of his eyes. It looked the very picture of peace and tranquility.

The door to the flat opened and shut softly. It must have been John, home from his date. Sherlock made no move to greet him until he heard a slight snuffling and a deep, shuddering breath.

He whirled around and set down the violin, immediately noting John’s red-rimmed eyes and trembling chin. “She left me,” he said in a hollow voice. “I thought maybe I’d found someone who… I loved her and she said she’d already found someone better, that she’d met him weeks ago and they really hit it off…”

“What was this one’s name, again?” Sherlock interrupted.

The question would have normally angered John, just proving once again that Sherlock couldn’t be bothered with ordinary life, but he only sighed in exhaustion. “Lucy, Lucy Harper. I’m going to bed now. I’ll see you in the morning.” He trudged upstairs to his bedroom dejectedly.

When he saw the bedroom light click off, Sherlock snatched up his coat and scarf and headed out.

*****  
Out of habit John got up at about eight the next morning and made a cup of tea. He had just curled up in his armchair when Sherlock burst in, bloody and bruised and looking exceedingly proud of himself. “Sherlock! Where have you been? Have you been out all night? Are you all right?”

The taller man merely peeled his coat off. “Did you know it seems to be extraordinarily difficult for some women to tell when the man she fancies is, shall we say, playing for the other team? However, it’s much simpler for one, if they so inclined, to lure this man in for a quick snog while his girlfriend looks on embarrassedly, to the amusement of an entire nightclub.”

John choked and gaped at him. “Please don’t tell me you did that.”

“Funny place, nightclubs. Only under the influence of alcohol would this man take a swing at the man he was just snogging, claiming he was “taken in” and wasn’t really gay, clearly a defense to try and keep his girlfriend.” He rubbed a bruise on his cheekbone, wincing. “Interestingly, to a nightclub patron, seeing this man take a well-deserved blow to the jaw is the height of amusement. On an unrelated note, have we got any bandages? The skin over my knuckles seems to be split.” He shook his hand and bit his swollen lower lip.

John buried his face in his hands. “What did you do and why?” he mumbled.

“My favorite bit is when the woman dropped her bag in the haste to get to her lover. As it turns out, her boss’s wife does not appreciate the suggestive pictures of her husband with another woman. Why anyone would keep such photos on their phone is beyond my comprehension, but she had it coming, didn’t she? Yes, I suppose so. Anyway, when the wife confronts her husband, this “other woman” loses her job, isn’t the unfortunate? All in the course of a few hours. Fascinating place, nightclubs. So many foolish people.”

John shook his head and exhaled loudly. “You can’t just–” He broke off as his phone buzzed with a text. He clicked the “open message” button and sighed again. 'You son of a bitch', it read. 'Sending Sherlock blooming Holmes to do your dirty work! He lost me my job and my boyfriend and publicly humiliated me! I hope you’re happy.'

“If nothing else, Miss Lucy Harper has impeccable timing,” Sherlock observed with amusement coloring his deep baritone voice.

“Sherlock, you can’t do things like this!” John reprimanded sternly, but he soon cracked and dissolved into hopeless giggles. He held up his mobile so that Sherlock could read the text. “And just what do you call this?”

Sherlock glanced at the screen and beamed, his split lip opening up and blood running down his chin. Despite the grin, his eyes were hard and dangerous– they said do not mess with what is mine. “I call it,” he said in the voice of a brilliant mad man, “divine retribution.”  
 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As a reminder in case you guys didn't know, each chapter is its own story. The chapters do not relate to one another in any way.


	3. Envy

Envy, n. a feeling of discontented or resentful longing aroused by someone else’s possessions, qualities, or luck

Sherlock Holmes is a lot of things. He’s the world’s only consulting detective, brother to the man who is the British government, the cleverest man anyone could meet, an occasional drug addict, and my flat mate. He’s also a great bloody git most of the time, but I suppose he can afford to be. People bore him. We’re too predictable, blind to the obvious (obvious only to him), and just plain dull. He doesn’t understand how life works for normal people, he’s condescending and blunt, and no one can get on with him.

And I burn up with envy every time I look at him.

I’m not jealous of the attention he gets, despite what people think. He may be the Sherlock Holmes, but I’m fine with being just John Watson or, on occasion, Doctor Watson. It’s his brain I want. 

What must it be like to have the measure of a man by the cut of his trousers or the scars on his palm or the flush of his cheek? To know how a woman will treat me by the type of shoes she has on or her shade of lipstick?

And what could it be like to stand at a crime scene over some poor bloke’s body and know exactly what happened, coupled with the satisfaction of being the only one who could? That brain, that perfect deductive mind that knew so much, that was what I was jealous of. Why would you need to know that the Earth orbits the Sun when you can identify 243 types of tobacco ash?

This is a hard thing to admit, because who would believe it of me? The very ordinary, often lonely John Watson wanted the mind of Sherlock Holmes, the man with only one friend? But that was the thing of it– he wasn’t lonely. That brain of his desired no company, so he was never lonely.

For that I envied him most of all.

*****

John Watson is the bravest man I have ever met. It’s not that he’s fearless, as I am– curiosity has a way of canceling out fear, and good thing. All the interesting things were what made other people afraid. No, it’s simply that he can move past his fear and do extraordinary things.

Things like befriending me.

I am not an easy person to like. I fully embrace this fact and indeed, it does not bother me. I never actively campaigned to make John like me, though I refrained from openly driving him away. I still needed a flat mate. He was good, he was, he tried to keep up and I couldn’t pretend his flattery didn’t make me want to blush, if I were so inclined to do such a thing.

He was so kind, so very… accommodating. He had the biggest heart of anyone I had ever met, and while that should have irritated me– another weak, soft-hearted fool to muddy up the issue at hand– it didn’t.

It did, however, force me to admit that jealousy had hit me hard.

I had never had the “emotional” touch. Nor did Mycroft, come to that. We were simply not those kind of people. We were distant and often cold, factual, precise. It is simply the most logical way to behave, but since people are not motivated by logic in murder cases, I occasionally found myself wishing I had a touch for the softer passions. That I knew what it was like to be held and loved, to love in return, to want nothing more than the happiness of another person, to be willing to give up my life to save another.

Well… that last one wasn’t entirely true. I would have given up my life for John without looking back, without a blink.

Still, I was unreasonably and irrevocably envious of John’s heart, the way it went out to anyone in distress in empathy, the way he could give it away so easily or harden it for battle.

I have been reliably informed that I have no heart, and I used to have no desire to change that. It was only very recently I realized that John Watson, ordinary in every way and inferior to myself, had something I envied, desired, coveted.

He had a heart.


	4. Sloth

Sloth, n. reluctance to work or make an effort; laziness

Sherlock Holmes can be physically extraordinary. Tall and slender, long and lean, with narrow shoulders and slim hips and mile-long legs, he can race across London to chase a cab or fly over rooftops, leaping like a cat. He is surprisingly strong, wiry muscles hiding under soft skin and silk shirts. He is more than willing to do the legwork for a case and while on one, he seems tireless.

And then sometimes he doesn’t move for days.

Without a case, he won’t even get dressed without a good reason– and precious little qualifies as a good reason. He will wrap himself in a sheet and curl up on the couch, loudly complaining about his boredom all the while. John will usually humor him by fetching things, his mobile or food or, well, anything. Anything but drugs, which John flat-out refuses to bring (“It’s illegal, Sherlock, and we can’t afford to have me sent to jail!”), if only on the grounds that Sherlock ought not to risk his health or the efficiency of his mind.

John knows he’s just an enabler, that we merely encourages his friend to lie around and refuse to budge, but he can’t help himself. The doctor in him always wants to help out, and the part of him that clings to the hope of wanting a family, that yearns to be a father, cannot resist doting on someone so helpless. Not that Sherlock is weak, he’s far from it, but something about seeing such a strong man reduced to motionlessness makes John lose his will to argue.

“Make me a cup, too,” Sherlock called into the kitchen one evening. It had only been a day since his last case, so his boredom hadn’t yet progressed to the point where he was completely insufferable. How he knew John was in there making himself a cup of tea the good doctor didn’t know, but he pulled out another mug with a sigh.

“You know,” he chided, setting one cup on the floor by the couch and flopping down in an armchair with the other, “someday I’ll just refuse to do this. I’ll make you take care of yourself.”

Sherlock rolled over, tangled in his sheet, and stared reproachfully at John with his curious bright eyes. “No, you won’t.”

Not wanting to admit the detective was right, John sat and nursed his tea in silence until Sherlock fell asleep. That was why he kept on, he realized. Sherlock sleeping on the couch. His face was smooth in rest, the harsh angles of his cheekbones were softened, those sharp eyes were hidden, and his hair felt sweetly over his forehead. Many would admit he was almost beautiful if they saw how the cold, hard mask fell to such childlike peace.

Yes, that was why he did it– to see the cleverest man in the world curled up on the couch like a dozy cat. Because for once he needed John, not the other way around.

John got up and reached for Sherlock’s empty mug. “Why do you do it, Sherlock?” he murmured. “Why can’t you have a normal schedule?”

A long, slender hand snaked out and closed around his wrist. “Because a mind like mine won’t allow it, John,” the deep baritone voice rumbled, cloudy with sleep. “I work so hard that I crash. I don’t eat on cases, I don’t sleep, I don’t do anything but think, which is extraordinarily physically taxing. When I don’t have to I break down and reboot.”

John made a noise at the back of his throat that might indicate sympathy. “It’ll be the death of you, you know. It’ll kill you. You’ll just up and die.”

“No, I won’t,” Sherlock mumbled, already miles away as he fell back asleep, releasing John’s wrist. “I’ve got you.”


	5. Gluttony

Gluttony, n. habitual greed or excess in eating

“Oh, I haven’t eaten in days,” Sherlock moaned around a mouthful of French bread. He had a solved a days-long case just a few hours ago, and the fact that it had been nearly a week since he last had a meal– he never ate while on a case, though John tried to force him to take in at least a piece of toast– was catching up with him. John made spaghetti to celebrate the solving of the very difficult case, and Sherlock couldn’t contain his hunger.

“You can’t keep doing this, all right?” John demanded. “You can’t just starve yourself for days.”

“I have to. Digestion slows me down, and I cannot afford the luxury of even the slightest distraction from my work,” the detective mumbled, shoving a forkful of pasta into his mouth. A dab of red sauce stained the white skin next to his mouth; John wiped it away absently as he stood up to rinse his own bowl.

“You’re already too thin, and that’s coming from a doctor. What if you had an even longer case, eh? What would you do? You’ll just run yourself down without any energy in your body, you’ll keel over from starvation, and then what’ll I do?”

Sherlock waved his hand impatiently. “Have we got any more?” He peered in the pot, but after John had eaten and after his own two servings, it was empty. He dropped the bowl in the sink with a noise like an angry cat and rummaged through the fridge. “There’s nothing here!” he wailed, pulling back and slamming the door. “John…” He turned his gaze to John, eyes enormous and pleading.

“Whatever you want, no,” John replied, heading into the other room to update his blog about the case.

“Order Chinese food, John? Please?”

“You just ate two dinners, and now you want takeaway?”

“Please, John, I haven’t eaten in a week! Wasn’t this what you wanted? For me to eat?”

John sighed, exasperated. “For you to eat all the time, not starve yourself and then eat anything you can get your hands on immediately! I’ll order, but you have to promise that you’ll eat something on cases, all right? Just a bit?”

“Yes, fine, just hurry, please!” It seemed hours until the food arrived, but when it did, Sherlock dove on it like a falcon. “Oh, I’ve never tasted anything so good,” he said thickly. He ate ravenously until John felt sure he should have burst, but he just sat back with a satisfied sigh.

John cleaned up after him with a small smile; it was good to see him content. Soon, he knew, he would catch up on sleep, probably just collapsing in his armchair and curling up for a good long nap. Just as the doctor was putting away the last clean dish, he felt lanky arms wind around his neck from behind.

“Sherlock, what are you–”

“I wanted to thank you,” the other man purred. It didn’t sound sensual, though it ought to have– it merely sounded like the lazy yawn of a cat. “You keep me going. You keep me alive, though I’m sure I could manage on my own somehow. So, John, thank you.”

The army doctor was a bit ruddy in the face, though he tried not to show it. He didn’t want to be caught blushing like a young girl. “Can’t just have you dying on me, can I? How would I pay the rent?”

After receiving no answer, he made to move back into the living room, leaving Sherlock alone in the kitchen. However, he hesitated in the doorway and turned back to face his flat mate. “Don’t eat too much, though,” he cautioned, wondering all the while if he should be saying this. Still, he couldn’t resist. “You might get fat.”

The horrified look on Sherlock’s face was almost worth it.


	6. Vanity, or Lack Thereof

Vanity, n. excessive pride in or admiration of one’s own appearance or achievements

John says I am beautiful. He tells me that every night. But as I look at myself in the mirror, I am forced to admit one thing: John is wrong.

Let me begin by stating I am not given to mooning over my reflection. I am not narcissistic about my physical appearance, though some may doubt it to look at me– my hair neatly combed and trimmed, my face clean-shaven, dressed in impeccable, well-fitting suits and expensive silk shirts. However, that’s merely because people are more given to trusting you when you are well-dressed, and although no one would actually admit to trusting me, it is a subtle, subconscious reminder that there is at least a decent chance I am not going to kill anyone.

Now, John. John is the exception to every rule. John moved in with me, befriended me, accepted me, trusts me. Desires me. Fell in love with me. If anyone is beautiful it’s him. He has such a good, kind heart, a loving nature, a level head on his shoulders. He’s perfect when he wakes up in the morning, all tousled fair hair and warm, sure hands splayed across my skin.

But I can’t waste my precious little time thinking about John. On a typical morning I wake up with enough time to shower and dress before he gets up. I’ve showered already and am staring at my reflection, desperately seeking answers. I run a hand through my hair, still damp and freshly scrubbed, and watch as the thick dark curls spring back into place. My eyes are curious, aren’t they, too small for my face and a mix of blue, green, and an odd sheen of silvery-grey. I make quick note of the rest of my face: heavy brows, straight nose, wide, full lips. The lower one still has the sunken indentations of tooth marks from where John nipped at me last night.

My cheekbones really do jut out to an alarming degree, don’t they? Long neck, broad shoulders, I’m built like a willow branch. Not like John, he might be short but he’s so very strong. I might be too, but you wouldn’t know it to look at me. Lanky and lean, all of me, legs too long and awkward for my body… Then in the middle my hips, sharp and twitchy, and John says he is thoroughly in love with my hips but I don’t know why…

And I’m so pale, how have I never noticed that before? John likes that too, he says he can mark me as his, and I love inspecting my bruises every morning– the more there are the better the night was– but John is tan and lovely, not merely the same china-white as the bedsheets. My hands roam over every bit of my body they can reach, frantically mapping all the ways I am different from my beautiful John, because I am so, so very different from him but since he’s just gorgeous that means I can’t be, right, or–

John walks in. “Sherlock, what are you doing?” he asks, probably very confused. Normally at this time of morning I’d be dressed and in the living room, texting Lestrade about getting me another case. Instead I’m stark naked and inspecting myself in the mirror. “You’re not usually one to stare at yourself. Are you feeling all right?”

“You think I’m beautiful, John, but you’re wrong. I’m not. Look, look at my reflection.” I point at the other Sherlock Holmes in the mirror. Goodness, he looks unhappy. I try to make my face impassive, but it fails. I’m perplexed and agitated. “There is nothing beautiful there, and I do not appreciate you lying to me.”

John comes up behind me. “What do you mean, lying to you? I’m not lying when I tell you how gorgeous you are. Look at you. Tall and slim and angular. It suits you, and you have such a perfect expressive face. Soft skin. You’re everything I never knew I wanted until I met you. And you, all of you, you fit so wonderfully around me, holding me, loving me… You’re so, so beautiful, Sherlock.”

I blink a few times, unsure of what to say. “But I don’t fit any of the parameters for what normal people consider to be beautiful.”

“Yeah, well, we’re not really normal, are we? You’re beautiful to me, isn’t that all that matters? You don’t have to stare into a mirror to know that.”

“Then how do I know?”

“You’re the most observant man in the world,” he explains slowly, as though I am too dim to understand. He may be correct. “Look me in the eye. Am I lying?”

I examine him more closely. Either John Watson is the world’s best liar or he is telling the truth. “I suppose you seem to be trustworthy.”

He chuckles. “Get out of the bathroom, Sherlock. I have to shower before work. I’d invite you to stay, but we know how that would end up, and I’d be three hours late with a black eye.” He gives me a pointed look and I remember the last time we took a shower together. We got a little too excited, a little rough, and I nearly got myself arrested for domestic abuse.

I give him a quick kiss, which he appreciates– I can hear the telltale rumble in his chest– and say, “I thought… You’re beautiful, John, and I thought since I didn’t look like you, I wasn’t… Just thought you ought to know.”

“Beautiful? Me?” As I leave, I get a quick glimpse of the last thing I expect to see: John leaning forward, carefully examining his own reflection.


	7. Lust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! This shall be the last chapter. It'll be a bit out of place, given that all of a sudden SEXYTIMES, and I've been told the pacing's a bit quick. But please just enjoy a little bit of PWP. Hope you liked the story.

Lust, n. very strong sexual desire

John Watson fell in love with Sherlock Holmes after they chased a cab around London, but he fell in lust with him only very recently. Afterwards he would wonder why it took so long– he was a lovely specimen of a man. Though of course, he mused, after a lifetime of admiring the sensuous curves of women, it just wasn’t in his nature to shift his attention to the strong, angular features of the man he lived with. And yet he did, because he loved him, and he was worth lusting after.

He started the day after they completed a case. It was blistering hot, so John had abandoned his usual jumpers and taken to wandering about in a loose t-shirt and light trousers. He bore it reasonably well– he was mellow by nature and it had been much hotter in Afghanistan– though he was a bit tetchy. So far nothing really set him off until he came across Sherlock, spread out on the couch on his belly.

This was the typical position for him, but that wasn’t what set John off. It was more of the fact that he had lost his sheet and was completely, stark naked. “Sherlock!” John yelped in surprise. He quickly recovered his composure and shock turned to anger. “Put your bloody pants on!”

“No, I don’t think I shall,” came the muffled reply. “It’s hot, you see.”

“I know it’s hot, but I managed to keep my clothes on! I don’t want to stare at your arse, you could at least pull the sheet back over you!”

“You’re funny when you’re angry,” the detective murmured with a chuckle. “All right, fine. If you don’t want to stare at my arse…” He rolled over so he was on his back, looking at John with  
amused, half-lidded eyes.

John gasped. “Sherlock, you…” He lost his words with the sudden jolt of arousal that skittered through his body. He felt a roaring blaze of lust course through him and all he wanted was to pleat himself along the length of the man before him and shag him senseless. He made a noise at the back of his throat.

“Yes, you like that, don’t you,” Sherlock purred. It wasn’t a question. He slid a hand down his slim chest and pressed his cock into it. His hips kicked up as he started to rub it, full lips parting to release a low moan.

John wondered what had happened. It had been a normal day and yet here he was, watching his suddenly very sexy flat mate wanking… and he enjoyed it. There was a touch of voyeur in him, while Sherlock was all exhibitionist. When his knees gave out, John sank into an armchair, eyes wide, desperately trying not to palm himself through his trousers.

Sherlock worked harder, his hand pumping his swollen cock faster. “Oh, yes, yes,” he groaned with such passion that John had to hold back a moan of his own. “Oh, yes, that feels so good, oh, it’s been so long…”

John swallowed, hard. It felt twenty degrees warmer, at least. “Sherlock, why are you doing this?”

Blindingly bright eyes met his own. “Because, John,” Sherlock said in his “you idiot” voice, wearing the face, “I want you. I always have. You can presume my logical, rational mind has been caught up in a haze of, dare I say it, lust.” The would-be superior effect was ruined by his arm, still moving back and forth. He bit his lip as his eyes rolled back.

“And,” he added, his hips bucking wildly, “you can’t pretend you don’t want me.”

John couldn’t argue. He was harder than he had ever been and, if he wasn’t careful, he was dangerously close to coming in his pants. He considered saying something, but before he could, Sherlock gave his loudest, most arousing moan yet.

“John– watch– I’m–” he choked out before he came, pearly ropes of come shooting over his belly and hand. When he had finished, he cleaned himself up with the long-forgotten sheet and sighed in relief.

John cleared his throat. “Well, if we’re done…” He stood up, fully intending to lock his bedroom door and get off.

In a flash, Sherlock was off the couch and on his knees before John. “Done?” He hooked his fingers in the waistband of John’s trousers and grinned up at him. “Oh, my John, we haven’t even begun.”


End file.
